Little Brother
by FuckMePumps
Summary: He'd never know he was scared so he could be saved, that he was hated only because he was dearly loved. Itachi wishes he could tell him, sometimes, then thinks better of it. Uchihacentric, 3shot.
1. Like Children

**A/N:** I only recently read the manga that covered the truth about Itachi. Forgive my lateness, but, I mean, who wouldn't be inspired by that? It makes the story even sadder for Sasuke, so dastardly as he is I can never hate one of my first anime loves. I do wish Itachi was still alive, somewhere... Anyway, here you go. First installment of this miniseries. Please review afterwards.

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Little brother is somewhere there, now. That graze of footsteps against filth, it could belong to no one else. They have always been unmistakable, not unlike the glimmer of naivety in his eyes, the stifled pitch in his innocent voice, the cherubic swells in his expression that plead, _Come play with me, Nii-san. _

**It was simple enough to let his lids descend, for a moment, to spare the tears that came. Mother and Father had fallen last, wounds so clean and precise they barely bled, not until they had collapsed on top of each other. **

**Mother and Father they were, no more. The strongest in their clan, the most traitorous in their village, and now they were none but a tangle of rotting limbs and moon-white bone, with just a few drops of red to prove their hearts ever existed. **

**Little brother should have found the others by this time. He would be a mesh of shock and fear and grief, which only intensify when he stumbles upon this, and… there. Right on cue.**

**The woven door is shoved aside hastily, and he imagined a gaze, stung with horror, that would be tinged with the smallest ounce of relief upon seeing him. His fingers coiled around the stem of the kunai, picturing its peak embedded in that pale, creaseless forehead. **

**_Nii-san, I…_ he released the blade before he could change his mind, cutting off whatever was about to be said. His vision flooded him, slowly, to realize that the kunai had missed its mark. And despite everything, the edges of his lips lifted, slightly. Of course.**

**How foolish of him to think that he could do it. Even his aim, the best the Academy had seen in ages, had betrayed him.**

**Gears of flesh shifted and turned, undoing the ties that held his plan together, retying the knot into something quite different. It would be more painful, more grueling a journey than simply letting the next kunai find its mark. **

**It showed in the unmasked hurt, the outright disbelief, and the tinge of anger that sketched swiftly into the curves of that face, emotions that flitted across his oblivion eyes, the kind expected from a macabre treachery. **

**In the end, there were just tears and a boy, his life ripped from him. There was also a man, who massacred his kin without so much as a grimace, now wanting to cry himself when he saw that.  
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**But there was no other way, if he could not kill his little brother.**


	2. Traces of Youth

**AN:** Just one review. Meh. I don't mind. I wrote this for the boys, anyway. But reviews are still welcome ;)

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Little brother is here, in front of him, finally. He sees that he has grown, and he has not. There is a significant increase in his height, and his clothes somewhat spoke of splayed allegiance (that would have to be taken care of, later), and the roundness had ebbed away, polished into hardened planes. But more or less, he is the same; that determination laced with strength, and maybe some recklessness. Above all, there is hatred; congealed into every syllable of his splintered tone that proclaims, _I will kill you, Nii-san._

**He was well aware that upon wandering into the village, their paths would cross and a battle would follow. A short one, a pitiful one, if he was correct, but it was too early to hope for anything else. But he had always been predictable, if any. **

**And so, a dash of seconds away from that thought, they intertwined once more, and one of them is a far cry from what he was, the last time they stood like this. Sometimes, on those wintry and ageless nights, when he can allow it, he dwells on that image, saved so carefully into his memory. It makes the scars, seemingly healed, throb with each remembrance, but he could not change it, and it was the only one he's got. **

**It is this: there is the arched stance of that ashen frame, a wild cat scarcely knowing how to hunt but is intent on doing it anyway, the malicious sapphire flame flickering in one hand, and then the face that almost makes him abandon all semblances of familiarity. **

**Those perfect, androgynous features were, undeniably, older. In one sputtering instant they even contorted to the point of repulsion, and it is with vacant eyes that he greets that abhorrent glare. **

**This was what he created, and little slivers of regret seep through, acute punctures in his soul. This was the untainted past they never had, this was the wake of a future that spelled demise for both of them. One way or another. **

**It was that which he captured in his mind, for later. In the present he deftly evades the callous attacks, deafens himself to the aggravated cries that came with every kick and jab, and tries not to look too much at what happened to that angel child he had known. **

**Finally, he throws his first blow, and it does more damage to him than to that ribbed chest. Some of the punches hardly connect, but their impact brings tremors and blood and glimmers of youth that hasn't yet left. **

**Back to the wall, neck choked by a fist, is when he delivers the words, as scathing as ever, as cruel as possible, and the shivers beneath his fingertips loosen his grasp. You could destroy a soul with those words; just words, and a hero.**

**He wishes he can die, then, because it would be eons better than this, than whatever they have… but he has to wait. **

**He makes certain he is despised much more than before, when he leaves. It was the last thing he wanted, the first thing he did, but his desires never mattered in the first place. **

**He would have to break the two of them, if it meant saving his little brother. **


	3. Better When I'm Older

**A/N:** Last chapter. Oh, Itachi :[

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**Little brother is unmoving, when the times comes, and so is he. This was it, and it was a knowledge that was not lost on either of them. More than a decade had gone by, and for all intents and purposes they were right back where they started. So close to the finish, with still too many secrets, yet he can only nod silently; a pathetic reply to that more vehement, **_**Let us end this, Nii-san. **_

It was his own choices that led to this, a sequence of events so inevitable it was bordering on humorous, in a cynical sort of view. It was his own actions that unfolded this, and he had been ready for the consequences since he saw that first flash of rage blossoming in those eyes. So, really, given that everything had worked according to his devices, this was actually yet another victory to add to his list. He had won.

Yet somehow, he couldn't feel more defeated if he tried.

He vaguely wondered if his half-heartedness was evident in the fight, or maybe those so-called perceptive eyes just missed it. There was so much he didn't know, so much that couldn't be told, if the task was still protecting him. It had been his thread of reason, the only thing he hung onto as he severed the rest, from the very start.

He could smell sweat now, a thin layer of exhaustion as power was drained from every aching pore. Minutes wore on, then hours, and the grunts or yells, so rooted in violent passion, became softer heaves of breath. Moves became slower, bodies slowly grew weaker, techniques were revealed, but still… that stare didn't become any less hateful.

There was vengeance written so visibly on his features, he almost congratulated him. Everything he has done, everything he was to leave behind—the shame, the dishonor, and nothing else, really—was for him, and he well earned it for complying so well with the plan.

Sometimes, an idle fantasy wills him to tell, tell him, tell him everything, tell him the truth he needs to know, tell him that he had built his life on a lie that was facing its death. But then genius takes over. Of course, it was unfathomable. What little world he had would shatter once more, and he cannot take that away, yet again.

He has become so redundant, so cliché, it's unreal. A backwards kind of routine: to be saved he had to be scarred, and in order to be loved, the payment was to be hated. He would have given up something else, a sacrifice that didn't require so much from him, but it was the only one he had.

The disease overwhelms him, and to the rest of his injuries, he succumbs; how tragic that the final thing he sees are those eyes, so blinded by vengeance and deceit. He feels the humanity left inside him dissipate, and knew that it was worth it, maybe. He had spent a lifetime protecting one who made it his goal to slay him, and he wouldn't have had it any other way if it meant that one would be alive. Foolish, but alive.

He lays down an offering, and raises his hand in a gesture so mysterious and arbitrary; it brings a wave of surprise on those dirt-specked lips.

He realizes that this was all worth it, now, as he taps that forehead once more, the only reminder of childhood between them. And then he smiles, a strange, quiet smile, as he dies to fulfill another's dream.

There is no response that can justify his parting, _Sorry; this is the last time,_

_Little brother. _

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**Please review.**_  
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